Frai Du Diable
by Supergirrl
Summary: She's the Devil's Spawn. Literally. Follow the life of Erik's only daughter, the Phantom of the Opera.
1. Chapter 1

You're probably all wondering why I am not updating Cape Swooshing. It's called procrastination. I do it a lot. Please review, peeps. Thanks to Cassieopia Lilly for beteating!

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

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Raoul De Chagny hurried through the pouring rain, a scarf pulled up around his lower face and a hat shielding him from the worst of the downpour. In his arms he clutched a small bundle that was tucked partly beneath his cloak. He walked with his head down, not wanting anyone to recognize him. It was unlikely that anyone of his social standing would be wandering around the bowels of Paris unless their carriage broke down.

Stepping over a drunk that was vomiting profusely on the sidewalk, he stopped and pulled out a small slip of paper from his pocket. After reading it quickly, he turned left down an alleyway. There were bits of garbage and brownish water everywhere, and homeless people huddled against the buildings. There was one, though, that sat alone and was trying to build a small fire. As Raoul strode by, he looked up and hissed," Some money to a poor man, kind monsieur?"

As the Vicomte turned to face him, Erik leapt up and shoved the other man against the wall. His hands wrapped around the trapped Vicomte's neck as he spat," What have you come for this time? What is left for you to steal from me? You took my love, my home, my music, everything! But now I finally get my revenge, now I finally get to kill you!" As he tightened his grip, Raoul gasped and dropped the small bundle. It rolled a few feet, and began to wail. Erik's head snapped to the bundle the second his sensitive ears picked up the pathetic cries. Another homeless man crawled over, and whispered," It's a baby!" Erik released the near-dead Vicomte, and kicked the man who was now cradling the bundle in the ribs. He gasped and buckled over, dropping the baby. Erik rolled it over and picked the child up gently.

It was a baby girl, with tufts of soft black hair and a pair of bright green eyes. But the lower half of the child's face was, to put it mildly, horrendous. She had a hole that stretched from just beneath her small nose to her upper lip, and her cheeks were not aligned at all. Her chin curled downwards, giving her lower face a weasel-like appearance. Her skin that was pale and smooth on the upper half of her face turned bright red towards the bottom, and had many small ridges and crests. The upper half of her face was like an angel's, but the bottom was like a demon.

Raoul, apparently confident that Erik was not going to attack again, said softly," She's your daughter, monsieur Phantom."

Erik nearly dropped the baby as he turned to face the Vicomte," That's not possible. You're her fiance, and we only….well, you know what I mean, once."

Raoul's face turned slightly bitter as he replied," That was all it took." Becoming more businesslike, he continued," Christine would have brought her herself, but she is still weak from the pregnanacy and labor, and I did not think it fitting for her to come see you alone. The child is three monthes old, and she wants her to be raised by you. Christine paid for a small country house for you and the child to live in, and she will continue to pay rent. If you accept her, I will never seek you out again, and I believe it would be of your best interest to keep the little one. Christine has not selected a name for her, but insists that her middle name be Meg after her friend."

Erik's face was thoughtful as he examined the baby, and he said in a barely audible voice," Dominique."

Raoul tilted his head to the side," Dominique?"

"There was a kind maid at the house I was born in who was gentle to me. She begged my mother not to sell me to the circus, to let her raise me instead. But Mother refused, and fired her."

Raoul digested this information before saying," So, you'll accept her."

Erik was stroking the baby's grotesque cheek as he replied," I accept everything but the house."

"I do not think Christine would allow her daughter to be raised on the streets."

The smallest of grins crept across Erik's face as he whispered," Have you not heard, Victome? They are rebuilding the Opera Populiare, and are opening it under new management. I think it best that I arrive before some other Phantom steps in and takes over my role. And I won't be alone, will I, Dominique?"


	2. Master of Voices

Okay, this is just an edited version of the original chapter. There are no major changes, though.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

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"Necklace pwetty!"

The pudgy hand of the toddler reached for Erik's wedding ring for Christine, which he had hung on a silver chain. He kept it near his organ, and right now, it was inches away from Dominique's sticky baby hand. In one smooth movement, he went from her little crib to his organ, and grabbed the ring away from her. He shouted in a scolding voice," Dominique, do not play with Daddy's ring, ever!" Her little chin began to shake as her eyes welled up with tears at the harsh tone of his voice. When she began to wail, all Erik had to do was pull her into a hug and sing several soothing notes before she sniffled once, and became calm.

He picked her up and headed over to their room. Since all his old furniture had been stolen or destroyed, he now slept in a black four-poster bed next to Dominique's small black crib. She was growing fast, being almost three years old, and he would need to get her a new cradle soon, or maybe even a real bed.

Erik was very protective of his daughter, and would admit that he spoiled her. She looked just like him, but her laugh and smile were so similar to Christine's it made a pang of sadness go through his heart. That was the only thing about her that was at all like her mother, though. She had a lightning-quick temper, and was fascinated by his organ and voice.

Setting Dominique in her crib and tucking the blanket around her deformed chin, Erik settled himself onto the bed, positioning himself so he could rock the crib with his foot. She sighed contently as he began to hum a little made-up tune that soothed her, and within minutes, she was asleep.

With the blanket covering part of her face, you could hardly tell she was deformed. He had made a tiny veil for her that covered the lower half of her face, but she did not wear it, nor he his mask. The only time she had it on was when Meg Giry came down to baby-sit her.

At first, Erik had hated the idea of anyone but him or maybe Madame Giry watching his only child. When he had to go to into the city to buy food or whatnot, he brought her with him, and kept her wrapped up in a blanket. But when she had started walking and talking(She, like him, was saying words at one and having conversations at two, but with a slight lisp.), he had found it increasingly difficult for him to restrain her from running around the shop or talking to strangers.

When he had mentioned this in passing to Madame Giry, she had suggested that Meg watch Dominique while he shopped. After all, Meg could be trusted, and her absence would not be noticed. Erik had decided after a long, long talk with Meg via Opera Ghost notes that she would be suitable to watch his child. After writing a five-page set of instructions, he had brought Meg down to his new lair (It was farther down in the sewers than the last one, making it far harder to find) and given her the instructions, and left her with the thought that if anything happened to Dominique, the hell with his agreement to Madame Giry and he would blow the entire Opera House with Meg in it sky-high.

After a very rushed and nervous shopping trip(He had walked into a store, paid for Dominique's new shoes, and nearly walked out without them, as if he were just visiting them.), he had returned home to a cheerful Dominique watching Meg practice her ballet movements. Since then, she had been coming down once a month to watch the baby while he bought food and the like.

Erik had decided to begin Dominique's singing and organ lessons when she turned four. That was when a child's voice began to develop, and their attention spans were long enough to sit still for long periods of time. He had never considered the fact that Dominique might not have inherited his and Christine's vocal talents, and that she might not be able to sing. How could the daughter of one of the greatest sopranos of all time and the infamous Phantom of the Opera not be able to sing as they did?

_Nine Years Later_

"Come on, Dominique, A flat. It's not hard, just hit A flat and we can go do something else."

"Papa, I don't think I-"

"Nonsense, mon cherie. I know you can do it."

There was a long sigh." I will try, Papa." A pair of green eyes closed, and a small, twisted mouth opened.

A strangled sound, rather like someone choking a goose, filled the cavern. Erik winced, and said," Dominique, we will practice more later. It's time for your organ lesson." He stood, but she remained sitting on the hard wooden chair.

"Dominique, what are you doing?"

"Papa, I have something I want to show you. Can you sit down again?"

His face confused, Erik sat and watched Dominique rise and move to the other end of the cavern. The unscarred part of her face bore a striking resemblance to her grandmother's, unfortunately, right down to her pale, pale skin. More than once, Erik had caught himself staring at Dominique and wondering how she could resemble Erik's mother so much, and still be so precious in his eyes. Dominique had already proven that she had his temper, and argued with him frequently, over things as minor as whether dinner was ready or not. Dominique cooked, cleaned, and basically performed all household tasks, and she did it well, too.

Dominique opened her twisted mouth, and sang in Erik's voice:

Past the point of no return - no backward glances: our games of make-believe  
are at an end . .

Past all thought of "if" or "when" -  
no use

resisting:  
abandon thought,  
and let the dream

descend . . .  
What raging fire shall flood the soul?

What rich desire unlocks its door?  
What sweet seduction lies before us . . .?  
Past the point of no

return,  
the final threshold, what warm,  
unspoken

secrets will we learn?  
Beyond the point  
of no return…

As she sang, she walked slowly around the lair, her green eyes glittering with power. Then, in a voice that sounded uncannily like Christine's:

You have brought me

to that moment  
where words run dry, to that moment  
where speech disappears into silence,  
silence . . .

I have come here, hardly knowing  
the reason why .

. .  
In my mind, I've already  
imagined our

bodies entwining  
defenseless and silent -  
and now I

am here with you:  
no second thoughts, I've decided,

decided . . .

Past the point of no return  
no going back now:  
our passion-play has now, at last,

begun . . .  
Past all thought of right or wrong

one final question:  
how long should we two wait,

before  
we're one . . .?  
When will the

blood begin to race  
the sleeping bud burst into bloom?  
When will the flames, at last, consume  
us . . .?

She stopped, and slowly moved her hand through the air, using the gesture to symbolize the end of the song.

He stared in awestruck silence. To hear Dominique sing something so beautifully, in such a perfect voice, brought joy to him, but for his thirteen year old daughter to be singing such… suggestive lyrics that he himself had written was a disturbing thought.

She looked expectantly at him for criticism, praise, anything, and when he finally regained control of his mouth, he said," Dominique, where did you learn that song?"

She shrugged. "Aunt Meg told me about it last time she was here. She said that you and Mother sang it together, and you wrote it. There were other songs she told me about, too. Did you like the voice?"

He nodded. Even though Dominique knew that Meg was not her aunt, she still called her that. Meg liked it, and it made everyone happy.

Before waiting for a verbal reply, Dominique continued," I learned how to imitate voices really well. Mother sang to me a little bit, and I still remember her voice, and I can sing like her! Are you proud, Papa?"

Erik's thoughts were coherent enough now for him to reply," I am very proud, but can you do any other voices?"

She smiled, and answered," I can sing in Aunt Meg's voice, but no one else's. I need to hear them to learn it. Do you want to hear Aunt Meg's?"

He gave a weak smile ( It was the best he could muster at the moment) and said approvingly," Of course, mon cherie. Sing the B flat scale, please."

Dominique moved through the scale flawlessly in Meg's alto, except for one time when her voice broke and she sang in her own voice.

A slow grin crept across Erik's face. "Dominique, you have found the solution to our singing problem. Starting tomorrow, I will find recordings of the voices of other singers, and bring them to you, so you can learn their voices. Your mother would be proud, little one."

"Papa, would it not be easier for you to bring me to the opera house with you, so I could learn the voices of the opera singers?"

Erik's face immediately angered, and he almost shouted," Dominique, you will not go to the surface until you are eighteen! It is too dangerous, and I will not lose my student and successor for something as petty as inconvenience!"

Her face mirrored his, anger covering her grotesque features. " So that's all I'm worth to you? Your student, someone who will carry on your work after you are dead? That's all you care about your only child, the only one who loves you? Do not think I am trapped here, if I wished to, Aunt Meg would help me leave you and live a life on the surface."

"You would do no such thing."

"If you do not treat me with more respect, as I see fitting, I will."

He sighed. She had inherited Christine's eagerness to learn, but not her gentle temperment. "You are most definitely my daughter, Dominique, and I will try to treat you both as a respected fellow and my student. Now, would you like to try some new songs?"

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You know the drill. Review. 


	3. Dominique's Discovery

Okay, I lied. The next two chapters will describe how Dominique become the Phantom of the Opera. Please review, it really encourages me! I do take liberties with a few facts in this chapter, but nothing major. To my beta: Sorry, I really wanted to post it. I will send you the next chapter soon.

Guess what, my awesome beta drew a PICTURE of Dominique! Here's the link:

http://www. fanart-central. net/pic-511448. html

Remove the spaces and you're there! Obviously,she is veil-less, and we couldn't get her lower face to be red. But otherwise, it's dead on.

Poll Question: Should Nadir appear?

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"Dominique, I need to go for food and ink. I'll be back in a few hours, if all goes well. Do not leave the cave, and lower the curtain if you hear anyone come near." 

Dominique sighed. "Yes, Papa."

He gave her a small hug. Dominique's upper face was beautiful, as he had suspected would happen, but her deformity had only grown worse with age. It was odd, seeing the noble forehead and large eyes, the dramatic cheekbones and the shapely nose, then the swollen red flesh of her chin and the hole above her lip.

Like someone had taken two different faces, one of a queen and one of a demon, and spliced them together. He saw her flop down onto her medium-sized black bed and call to one of her cats.  
Yes, Erik had conceded to a pet. Meg Giry had brought that poulet….. of a cat into his house for Dominique's seventeenth birthday as a gift.

Erik had told Dominique that something was wrong with the cat, it was too fat even though it barely ate anything, but no one listened to Erik. Dominique insisted that the cat (Named Antoinette for the famous French queen) was perfectly fine, and Erik was just being paranoid.

Lo and behold, several months later, he woke up to the sound of Dominique squealing, "Papa, Antoinette had kittens! Six of them!"  
Erik had dragged himself out of bed (he never really was a morning person when he actually slept), and came over and saw that Antoinette had, in fact, given birth to six kittens, all louder than their mother.

Erik had said that as soon as the kittens could be weaned, they were to be given to Aunt Meg (Who was no longer on the short list of people he was happy with) and given away.  
Dominique had begged, pleaded, pouted, even composed a short song to try to convince him to let her keep all six of the goddamn kittens, but had in the end only won because she held one up to her face, put on her best cute expression and said pleadingly," Papa, can I please keep them?".  
It had not helped that the kitten she was holding was the cutest, and that it had let loose a single pitiful mewl.

Even Erik could not resist that, and he had grudgingly conceded to the kittens all staying. And he had regretted it. Dominique spent hours laboring over kitten-friendly meals, and let Erik eat whatever was left over. Antoinette had decided that his best cape would be a suitable nest for her and her litter, so Erik was constantly brushing cat hair off it while doing Opera Ghost business. Once he had finally devised a way to keep the cats of his cape (Lemon juice squirted on it. The only problem was that he now smelled like salad dressing.), they had moved to his coffin, which he did not intend to share with seven loud hairballs. Unfortunately, both Dominique and the cats were persistent, and he unwillingly relinquished his bed to them, and slept on the floor with his cape as a blanket.

He had endured an impromptu dip into the lake in his new clothes to rescue a kitten, and had even had a jaunt through the abandoned tunnels that held colonies of rats the size of cats to rescue the aforementioned kitten again.

His greatest joy was when the same kitten had wedged itself inside a mannequin he had (Erik now made Dominique's and his own clothing), and was stuck in one of the arms. He had ended up breaking the mannequin that cost 500 francs to free the cat, who rewarded him by biting his hand hard enough to draw blood.

He had liked Ayesha fine. She was bred to tend to royalty. Dominique's cats were meant for gutters. With a final look at his baby girl, who had taken a piece of string and was dangling it in the air for her favorite kitten to catch, Erik turned and rowed far enough that Dominique could no longer see him, but he could see and hear her. He stood there for five, ten minutes before he heard the quiet, rhythmic breathing of someone sleeping. Dominique was a light enough sleeper that she would awake if anyone came near. Smiling, Erik began to paddle it down the long passageway.

Dominique mimicked the sound of sleeping and laid flat on her side until she heard the gentle splashing of water as her father paddled away. Once she was confident that he was gone, she grinned and sat up. Climbing off her bed, Dominique shivered with anticipation as to what she was about to do.

In her father's room, there had always been a medium-sized black box that Dominique was not allowed to open, nor did she know of the contents. Ever since she was a little girl, she had fantasized on what the box contained. Some magnificent piece of jewelry that had belonged to her mother, or perhaps a piece of music not yet finished that was written for Dominique to perform? Her young mind had always entertained the most wonderful fantasies, and she was sure that whatever she found would be up to the expectations of her vivid imagination.

Anyways, this was the first time she had been left home alone, and she would not lose her opportunity. Her father was too light of a sleeper for her to risk opening it at night, so now was her first and only chance.

Creeping into her father's room, she stepped over his coffin-now a cat bed- and sidestepped to avoid a haphazardly stacked pile of papers. When she reached the box, her hands were trembling with excitement. There was no lock on the box-Her father trusted her obedience to his orders- and with one swift motion, she flung the lid open.

The results were rather disappointing. Instead of her imaginary jewels or opera scripts, there were only a stack of newspaper clippings, some old and yellow, others that looked quite recent. Tentatively, Dominique lifted the top clipping out of the box, and began to read it. The title screamed in angry black letters," Opera Ghost Returns! Will the Monster Be Captured?" Tears began to form in Dominique's green eyes as she read the article. It listed the various crimes of the Opera Ghost, of the Phantom of the Opera. Thievery, kidnapping, arson, and worst of all, murder. Dropping the clipping, she pulled another from the box, this one containing a detailed picture of the Phantom of the Opera that she instantly recognized as her father, mask and all. _No, it can't be._

Dominique poured through article after article, reading about the horrors that the Phantom of the Opera had performed against innocent Parisian citizens. Tears dripped down her disfigured cheeks, landing on the clippings. At the very bottom, she found the worst of all.

The death notice of the Vicomtess Christine de Chagny.

He had told her that her mother had grown ill after childbirth, and died. This death notice was far too recent, only a few years ago. It said that she had died in childbirth, delivering a healthy son named Gustave. It also mentioned how she had given birth to one other child, a stillborn girl. That must have been Dominique.

Her mother had abandoned her. The photograph of Christine made her heart ache even more. Her mother was beautiful, radiant. Long dark curls framed an elegant face, the highlight of which was a pair of large brown eyes.

That was why she was abandoned, because such a perfect woman would not want to raise a monster.

Dominique collapsed on the cold stone floor, sobbing quietly. All these years, her father had been her hero, her idol. He was the Angel of Music, kind teacher and mentor to talented singers. He advised the managers of the Opera Populaire, and they paid him out of sheer gratitude for his services. All a lie. A horrible, brutal lie.

When she heard the splashes that heralded the approach of her father's boat, she made no move to get up, or disguise what she had been doing. Her entire body felt empty, hollow. It was all a lie.

"Dominique, what are you doing?" Her father's voice was nonchalant, but held an undertone of anger. He saw her booted feet and the end of the black dress she wore, and climbed the narrow steps to his room.

Erik took in the scene before him-Dominique sprawled on the floor, the open box, and the scattered papers- and let out a shout that was like that of an animal, filled with misery and rage.

Erik grabbed Dominique by her bony shoulders, and shook her while shouting," Damn you, girl! Do you know what you did? You disobeyed my orders, and insulted me! Curse you! Little prying Pandora, little demon! No longer are you free! Cursed devil that hides in the face of a broken angel!"

Raising his right hand, he slapped her hard across the cheek. Dominique crumpled to the ground with a cry, clutching her now-bruised cheek. Erik drew back his foot, and kicked her in the ribs, hard. Then, he did it again and again. Dominique howled with pain, and curled into a ball.

Erik turned away from her, and with a shout, knocked over a candle stick and a desk. He looked down at her, lying in a fetal position on the floor, quietly weeping.  
He finally seemed to realize what he had done, and said in a soft, drained voice," Oh, Dominique." He returned to her crumpled form, and offered a hand to pull her up. "Did I hurt you?"

Dominique rose to her feet, shaking slightly. She stumbled forward, and kept a tight grip on the dresser as she made eye contact with Erik, and said in a plain, flat voice," I hate you."

Erik tried to reach out to touch her face, but she pulled away, giving him a look of pure disgust and hatred that he recognized as almost the same look Christine had given him countless times.

She gave a bitter laugh, "I mean, you kicked me in the ribs and you hit me. What do you expect. Mother dearest-"her voice dripped with sarcasm and fury"- may have been willing to forgive you, but I'm not. You lied to me about everything, and I no longer trust you."

Erik was barely holding back tears. This couldn't be happening, his perfect daughter, the only one who loved him, could not be saying this. His damn temper had gotten the worst of him one time too many. "Dominique, I was going to tell you when you were older. I wanted you to know, just not now. Please, forgive me. I promise I will never hurt you again. Please, don't hate me."

The look of raw, childlike pleading in his green eyes was almost too much for Dominique. But when she raised her hand to her cheek, and felt the bruise that would probably last for weeks, and the tenderness of her ribs, she felt no pity for the monster standing before her. "I am sorry, but no. You hit me, and cursed at me. You have no control over your temper, and I will not fall victim to it ever again."

She let go of the dresser, and stood up taller. A fierce pride and righteous anger filled her, and she looked more confident as she said," I am no longer your daughter. I am your student, who lives here not out of affection for you, but only to learn my craft. Once I have learned what I need to know, I will leave you and make myself a new home. You survived on your own once, and you will do it again." Her eyes were cold as they surveyed him, crying softly. She walked by him, making sure not to brush her shoulder against his. Erik tried to touch her face, get her to look at him again so he could apologize, and they could go back to their normal loving relationship. Instead, Dominique stormed over to the kitchen area and began to bang around pots and pans as she began to cook.

After watching her for a moment, Erik approached cautiously, mentally readying his apology. "So," he asked casually, as if nothing had happened," What are we going to eat for dinner?" Dominique whirled, her black hair nearly hitting him in the face as she stared into his eyes intensely. " New rule, I cook for me, and only me. You are now cooking for yourself, you do your own laundry, you clean your own room. I used to do all that for you, but that opera has played. A new one's in the theater." She tossed the towel she had draped over her shoulder at him, and Erik caught it.

Dominique strode past him briskly, not making eye contact. " I am not hungry tonight; I think I will retire early. Good night, teacher." She put extra emphasis on the last word, then walked to her own room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Erik stared at the closed door, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Finally, the emotions overwhelmed him, and he sunk to the floor, holding the towel close to his face. It smelled like Dominique, and it comforted him. One of the kittens came near him and gave a curious," Mew?" When he didn't reply, the kitten licked him once, then plopped down next to him, confused at his silence.

Erik slept there that night, too overwhelmed by pain and desperation to rise to his bedroom. The kitten slept with him, providing a slight comfort. Before Erik fell asleep, he could have swore that he heard muffled sobs from Dominique's room. He told himself firmly that he was imagining things, and fell into a fitful sleep plagued with nightmares involving Christine staring at him spitefully, and saying in Dominique's voice," I hate you."

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I felt really bad writing that. Please review! 

O.G.


	4. Old for New

Okay, guys, sorry for the EXTREMELY long wait for an update, I was very busy and got involved in another fandom for a while. But anyway, this is the second-to-last chapter of this fic, the last one will be posted at the same time as this one. This takes place about ten years after the last chapter, though you can sort of time it whenever you care to. That's all you need to know about this before reading it, so on to the story!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, or any characters affiliated with it. The honor belongs to Gaston Leroux, not me, obviously.

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Dominique sighed as she ladled broth into a chipped black bowl, taking care not to spill any. It had been a long, long time Erik had gone to the surface, and they were near the end of their funds. Madame Giry could no longer help them, she had long since been retired from the Opera Garnier and moved to the countryside to live out her old days in peace. It had been easy to take care of him in the early days, what with the small fortune he had amassed in his lifetime, but the medicines and the food had gotten increasingly expensive, and by now, they barely had enough to live on. Dominique smiled inwardly. Not like medicine would have helped with what was wrong with him…

"Dominique…" Erik's thin voice came from the other room, barely audible, even in the silence of the cave.

She sighed. "Coming, Father." She reached for a bottle perched upon one of the rickety wooden shelves lining the kitchen walls. It was large and clear, with a light brown liquid swishing around in the bottom, with a cork stuck in the top. She pulled open a drawer, empty except for a rusty corkscrew and a fork missing a tine. Sticking the corkscrew into the cork, she popped it off, raising the bottle to her lips and gulping down the remnants of the whiskey bottle. She dropped it onto the floor next to the corkscrew, breathing heavily. Dominique wasn't sure when she had become so dependent on the spirits Erik had left over from his younger days, but ever since Erik had become ill, her life had lost what little normalcy it had to begin with. Days of tending him had blurred into weeks, fading into months and eventually, years. She didn't know what year it was, or even her own age. Picking up the black bottle barely the size of her fist that had been hidden behind the whiskey. Not bothering to find the corkscrew, she stuck her fingernail between the cork and the bottle's rim, popping it out. Her fingernail burned with pain, but she ignored it, upturning the bottle over the bowl of soup. Flakes of metallic-gray powder fell from it, floating atop the soup until Dominique stirred it with the spoon, mixing it in. When she was finished, it was impossible to tell that there was anything in the bowl besides soup.

Erik had become a truly disgusting sight to behold. His yellowed skin wasn't stretched tightly across his bones anymore, but wrinkled and baggy, as if he had shrunk while his skin expanded. Mucus had collected in the gaping cavity where his nose should have been, which made it nearly impossible for him to breathe unless Dominique flushed it out several times a day. The ragged fringe of hair that had clung to his scalp for most of his life had fallen off, and, if possible, his face seemed more hideous than it had ever been before. Even his golden eyes that had once heralded the death of all who gazed upon him them had faded, red-rimmed and sunken back even further into his head.

Of course, she'd lived with him her entire life, and his hideousness was something she was accustomed to.

He croaked, "Is…is that you, Dominique?" The old man's vision had been one of the first things to go, and now, he could hardly make out even the largest of shapes.

"Yes, Father, it's me. Would you like your supper now, or later?"

He gave a great, shuddering cough, then wheezed, "Now, child."

That was another thing that Erik had lost; Key bits of memory, such as what decade it was, and all perception of time. Sometimes he told her she needed to nap, or that it was time for her piano lessons. He occasionally thought she was Christine, other times, he had called her Nadir, whoever that was.

She knelt beside him, raising the spoon to his cracked lips. He swallowed it slowly, his breaths coming in short gasps. Dominique slid her free hand behind his head, helping him hold himself up. After several laborious minutes of guiding the spoon to his trembling mouth and holding his head in place while feeding him, the bowl was empty. Erik gave a weak groan as she laid his head back down on the thin pillow, his head lolling to the side.

Dominique set the bowl down on the cool stone floor, then straightened. She said softly, "Father?"

He made a thin noise that she interpreted as a response. "Father, I've got something to tell you." Extending her hand, she cupped his face, turning him to look at her, his. She wiped away a streamer of drool before continuing, "You know this illness that has come over you, this accursed sickness that has been robbing you of your mind and sanity?" He gave the tiniest of nods, not having the strength for anything more. "It's not really a sickness, Father, it's poison."

He made a faint sound of protest, shock, something, she couldn't tell, and didn't bother trying to decode it. "That's right, Father, I've been poisoning you. For the last…however long it's been, I've been putting poison in your food. A long-lasting one, I'll admit, but it worked. You just ingested the final, fatal dose."

Erik gasped, "W…w…why?"

"Because," She hissed, leaning down, "You lied to me for so long, kept me trapped down here as your precious little student, your last attempt at making things perfect-For _you_. You didn't care about me or my happiness, or how I wanted to live my life! When I was old enough, you refused to let me go to the surface, until you were too incapacitated to notice or care! You denied me the chance to become the Phantom of the Opera for so long, just so you could never let go of it! Did you really think I was going to spend the prime of my life tending a senile, sick old man who did nothing but lie to me? Now, your time was rapidly approaching as was, so I decided to…help it along a little bit. It's the natural order of things, after all. The young and the healthy take over from the elderly and sick. Surely you agree with me." She gave him a horrible, cruel grin, her face alight with a sick kind of pleasure.

Erik stared up at her with a mixture of disgust, disbelief, and fear. How could she? His only child, his prodigy, the only person alive he cared about, had betrayed him in the most final, ultimate way. Erik suddenly felt a strange coolness sweep over him, a chill unlike any he had ever felt before. His vision narrowed, the edges of his line of sight turning black and creeping inwards. The realization of what was happening hit him like a slap across the face. _He was dying. At long last, after his years of suffering, he was finally dying._ He was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to touch Dominique's face, one last time before he died.

Raising his shaking hand, he stretched it out towards Dominique, his vision fading away, until finally the last pinprick of light faded, and his hand fell to his side. Dominique pressed her fingers to the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

The Phantom of the Opera was, at long last, dead.

Dominique rose to her feet, looking down at the rapidly stiffening corpse of her father. Despite herself, she felt a wave of cold rush over her, and for a brief moment, her heart clenched in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a trickle of remorse as tears burnt behind her closed eyelids. Because, no matter how horrible Erik had been, how evil he was, he was still her father, and she had just killed him.

Suddenly, the bright side of this popped into her head. She was now the _Phantom of the Opera._ The thing she had longed for her whole life, the all-consuming need that had nearly swallowed her alive, her ultimate goal in life, was now hers. Dominique knew what she was going to do tonight…she was going to go up to the Opera Garnier and unveil the grand arrival of the reborn Phantom, a Phantom far greater than the previous one could have ever dreamed of being!

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, joy coursing through her, making her entire body feel electrified, every cell of every nerve tingling with nervous energy. But first…first, she needed to be able to dress the part. Forcing herself to contain her excitement, she opened up the bureau in which she had kept Erik's Phantom finery, in anticipation for this day.

The smell of mothballs and dust swept over Dominique, making her wrinkle her nose. Waiting for the air to clear slightly, she stuck her hand into the bureau blindly, and pulled out a silken black tuxedo jacket. She dropped it on the ground with a smile on her face; Within minutes, a stiff white long-sleeved shirt, a long black cape, a and a pair of black trousers had joined it on the floor.

Dominique shut the bureau, then stared down at the pieces of the Phantom ensemble, deep in thought. The key to this would be to resemble her father exactly, to make it appear that he had returned from the grave at the peak of his strength.

Her arm stretched out, seemingly of its own accord, and gripped the top of the filthy cloth covering the full-length mirror that stood next to the bureau. It felt to the floor, crumpling in a pile. Kicking it away, she reached around to her back, loosening the laces that held her dress in place with deft fingers. With her help, the dress pooled at her feet, and Dominique stared at herself in the mirror.

She was extremely thin, her ribs and collarbone prominent, even with the thin fabric of her chemise covering them. She had no figure to speak of, though in a way, that was a blessing. It would be hard to pass herself off as a man if she had a heaving bosom. Her silhouette was more or less a straight line down her ribcage and past her hips, with bony legs and small feet.

Dominique picked up the white shirt Erik had once worn beneath his jacket, sliding her arms into the sleeves and buttoning it up the front. She buttoned it all the way up under her chin, wanting to ensure that none of her chemise peeked through. With a frown, she realized that the outline of her chemise was still visible through the shirt. Reopening the bureau, she rummaged inside of it for a moment before emerging triumphant with a frilly cravat. Looping that around her neck several times, she decided that it, combined with the vest she planned to wear, would be sufficient.

She selected a simple black vest from the bureau, sliding that on as well. The vest seemed to have shrunk slightly during its years of disuse, and was a bit tight, but still fit. The black tuxedo jacket she had selected seemed to be in fairly good condition, save a few loose buttons and pulled seams. She put it on anyway; She could repair it later.

When she lifted the pants, however, she felt slightly nervous about putting them on. Dominique had never worn pants, ever, and it didn't seem proper, nor appropriate. However, she didn't have a choice. Were she to wear a skirt, it would not only impede her movement, but make it obvious to any unfortunate to lay eyes upon her that she was a woman. With a shudder of revulsion, she stepped into one pant leg, stuffing as much of her chemise as she could into that leg before repeating the process with the other. That padding made it look like she had more substantial, masculine legs, which would be helpful in maintaining her charade. She fasted the pants, then took several practice steps, just to see how it would feel. It was strange, being able to move her legs separately, but with time, she would become accustomed to it.

Next came the heavy black boots Erik wore. She had to put on several pairs of stockings to keep her feet from sliding around in them, but once they were fully laced up, they didn't look like they had been stuffed.

Finally, she fastened the swirling black cape around her neck, spinning once to feel the full effect of it twirling around her. She looked back at the mirror, examining her reflection critically.

Her form could, with some padding, pass as a man's, but what of her face? The mask would cover her features, of course, but her eyes looked nothing like Erik's. His had been golden-yellow slits, while hers were large and green; Opulent, Erik had once described them as being. They were really her only attractive feature, and a dead giveaway as to her identity. There really was no cosmetic cure to that, and she knew that the only way she could really hide it would be to make sure no one saw her eyes and lived.

Then there was the matter of her skin. One small blessing in her life was the fact that instead of being yellow and jaundiced, like Erik's was, her skin was pale and for the most part, quite smooth. Another thing she needed to disguise. She could wear gloves to cover her hands, and the mask would obviously block her face sufficiently to keep that skin hidden.

Her hair was the other major problem; It was long, hanging around her waist, and a rich, glossy black. It was the polar opposite of what little hair Erik had had, and unless she found a way to hide it…

An idea struck her. She could use one of the hair nets she occasionally wore to bed to hold her hair up, then cover it with something. She rushed to her bedroom, searching through the small box in which she hid her more private possessions, out of habit more than anything else. She removed her hair brush, the white cream she had begun rubbing into her skin in an effort to prevent herself from aging any more than she already had, and the rags she used for her cycles before finding a black knit hair net and several pins to help hold it in place.

She returned to her post in front of the mirror, and unwound her long black braid. Her hair was wavy from being in a tight braid for so long, and she ran her fingers through it, finger-combing it as best she could.

Piling her hair atop her head, she stretched the hair net over it, making sure that every last lock of hair was tucked up beneath it. Slipping the pins in place, she made sure that the net was secure before setting a simple black hat atop it. Dominique pulled it down snugly, then smiled in satisfaction. Now it was time for the final piece, the one thing that would tie this whole façade together.

The mask.

When Erik had fallen 'ill', Dominique had packed away all his masks in old hatboxes she had collected, to keep them safe until her time came. Now, it was time for them to see the light of day once more.

She bent down, reaching back around behind the mirror and lifting an old tan hat box, setting it down on the floor in front of her. She lifted the lid slowly, revealing the black porcelain mask, nestled upon a bed of crumpled-up newspaper. She tenderly lifted it from its resting place, rising slowly to her feet to stand before the mirror once more. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she realized what she about to do.

With shaking hands, she slowly raised the mask to her face, feeling her entire body tremble with excitement. As it made contact with her face, she sucked in a breath at the feeling of cold porcelain against her skin. Her eyes opened, and she stared at herself in the mirror, shaking every so slightly. Even her breathing became erratic as she gazed upon her reflection.

Staring back at her was not Dominique Destler, the unwanted child of a Phantom and a countess. She wasn't the weak, pathetic creature who worshipped a lying bastard for the greater part of her life before killing him. Nor was she Erik, the original Phantom of the Opera, the first who believed himself to be the last. She was something entirely different.

She was the perfect Phantom, the one that Erik could only dream of being. She was true Phantom of the Opera, the first, last, and only.

And her reign had only just begun.

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So...did you like it? If so, keep reading, the next chapter is coming up!

O.G.


	5. Singing Songs in Your Head

This is the final chapter of Frai Du Diable. This takes place ten, maybe twenty, years from the last chapter, you can sort of decide how long it was on your own. A lot of this is left up to your interpretation, which was my intent. Thank you, reviewers, and everyone who stayed with me through the course of this story. Now that this is done, I'm going to work on finishing Cape Swooshing, so look for that!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, or any characters associated with it. Dominique is mine, but otherwise, they all belong to Gaston Leroux.

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Dominique gazed intently at the headstone of Christine's grave. She couldn't stay here long, they were still looking for her. After this last stop, she was going to England to start a new life, to resurrect the Angel of Music. She had sold almost everything, keeping what little held sentimental value. Dominique and her cats-all descendents of Antoinette- were leaving France, once and for all.

Faintly, she heard the sound of an approaching car. She didn't have much time. Hastily, Dominique pulled the slightly squished rose from her cloak pocket and stripped it of its thorns, ignoring the drops of blood that sprung from her own bony fingers as she plucked. Once all the thorns lay scattered on the ground around her feet, she reached deeper into the pocket and found a black ribbon.

After wiping her hands hastily on the cloak to avoid staining the ribbon, Dominique tied the ebony ribbon around the stem of the rose in a neat knot. With shaking hands, she brought the small ring she wore on a chain around her neck to her lips, and kissed it before sliding it onto the stem of the rose and setting it down on the tombstone.

Dominique could now hear the quiet sound of a wheelchair being pushed across the leaves covering the ground.

Looking around for a hiding place, she spotted a large statue of an angel, wings and arms outspread in blessing to those who passed beneath it, set conveniently next to a mausoleum. She moved as quickly as possible towards it, knowing that she would soon no longer be alone.

Dominique breathed hard as she grabbed the leg of the angel, pulling herself up. Using the angel's left wing as a foothold, she attempted to swing herself into place on the roof, and nearly slipped. Using all her strength, she swung her long, lanky body onto the rooftop. Her cloak snagged on the angel's outstretched hand, but with a firm tug, it came loose.

Dominique had barely made it. Just as she pressed herself to the roof of the mausoleum, the wheelchair, its occupant, and the two people accompanying him came into view. The old man sitting in the wheelchair she recognized as the Vicomte de Chagny, who still clung to the threads of life. Dominique watched silently as the elderly Vicomte gazed longingly at the tombstone, clearly reminiscing days past.

A slight smile graced Dominique's twisted features as the Vicomte spotted the rose, his eyes widening with shock. He looked around in shock, trying to see whoever was there.

_Nice try, little Vicomte, I am a living ghost, leaving no evidence and never seen. Don't waste your time trying to glimpse a Phantom. Don't try to catch smoke._

Dominique knew that the old man, harmless as he may seem, probably still held a grudge against her for her previous….transgressions against his son. His perfect, handsome, talented, darling son, who stole what should have been hers. Dominique shook her head hastily and reminded herself that her time as Opera Ghost here was now over, and that she needed to be a good girl. But why not give him one last memory, one last reason to fear and revere the Phantom of the Opera?

In Meg's gentle alto, she sang, "_I am the Angel of Music…"_

He looked around, startled.

This time, she sang in the voice of her father.

"_Come to me, gentle Angel of Music. Come to me, kind Angel of Music. Come to me, benevolent Angel of Music. Come to me, omnipotent Angel of Music. Come to me, vengeful Angel of Music. Come to me, Vicomte. Come." _

The nurse and manservant heard her this time, and called out, demanding she reveal herself. Pure terror covered the wrinkled face of the Vicomte.

In the voice of her half-brother, and taking care to infuse a trace of bitterness and hate, "_The Angel of Music does not forgive past transgressions. Remember that, dear Vicomte."_

Shifting slightly, Dominique sang in Christine's voice, "_The Angel of Music is there, singing songs in your head…"_

Below her, the trio's faces froze with terror. With a contemptuous flip of her cape, Dominique turned, and was gone.

The excitement caused by the Lady Phantom eventually died down, and Parisians returned to their normal lives, gradually forgetting about the tragic story of love, hate, and betrayal that had occurred under their very noses. After many years, no longer were tales of the Opera Ghost and the Lady Phantom told to young choirgirls, no longer did the ballerinas joke that the Lady Phantom had stolen their comb or shoes. The music of night faded from Paris, and the managers of the Opera Garnier could jest about the Lady Phantom's reign of terror over their theater without fear of a noose around their neck.

And yet, the Angel of Music would always be there, singing songs in their heads.

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I hope you all enjoyed this story, and thank you for all your support!

O.G.


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